


catch closer through the looking glass

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Season/Series 10, traces of dub-con/non-con (not between dean and cas)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's eyes hurt, and he thinks about shutting off some of the lights, but he can't let this go now. There might be something. And it's better here, on the ground. His bed would be soft, warm. Only, it's covered in books, in discarded clothing. There's always something, pushing him back.</p>
<p>And he's not been shut in for a week this time. He thinks. Only, sleeping is harder now. Being awake is better, he can – keep himself in check. The mark hurts, searing, almost constantly. Sam says, maybe Dean shouldn't be alone this often. But it's safer. It's – </p>
<p>His bed would be softer than this ground. It's been covered in books, in discarded clothing. The empty side, too. </p>
<p>There is always something, pushing him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	catch closer through the looking glass

 

 

 

 

 

**catch closer through the looking glass**

 

 

_catch closer through the looking glass_

_and i will twist around your words_

_they make_

_dead bird bird wing you're standing in_

_my way_

 

 

 

 

 

 

He's sitting on the floor, again, and it's the fifth hour and biblical lore is swimming before his eyes.

 

The book is leather bound and soft, but so heavy that it's been a dead weight on his outstretched legs since hour one. Dean's been staring at this page too long – something that looks like a butterfly, only not, too many eyes, too many teeth – and it's not really reading anymore, what he's doing. Or much of anything.

 

But he's almost through this one, _again_ , and nothing yet. He doesn't want to be through. Maybe, if he waits long enough, there'll be something, this time. It's crap, of course, but his hand is hovering, just about to turn the page, and he feels the weight creep up, the dread. Dean let's the hand fall to the ground, again.

 

Where Sam is, if it's day or night or neither. He doesn't know.

 

Dean's eyes hurt, and he thinks about shutting off some of the lights, but he can't let this go now. There might be something. And it's better here, on the ground. His bed would be soft, warm. Only, it's covered in books, in discarded clothing. There's always something, pushing him back.

 

And he's not been shut in for a week this time. He thinks.  Sleeping is harder now. Being awake is better, he can – keep himself in check. The mark hurts, _searing_ , almost constantly. Sam says, maybe Dean shouldn't be alone this often. But it's safer. It's –

 

His bed would be softer than this ground. It's been covered in books, in discarded clothing. The empty side, too.

 

There is always something, pushing him back.

 

 

 

 

> > >

 

He turns a few pages. There are words he doesn't think he remembers, but it's a pathetic deception. Nothing of this might be helpful at all, or it could be, but Dean might not be smart enough to understand when it is. Sam would be. But Dean can't let Sam shoulder it all alone.

 

And they keep running out of time.

 

Dean let's his head fall back against the mattress. Just for a minute.

 

It feels so _heavy_.

 

Before he closes his eyes, he thinks he sees flowers on the dresser in front of him. Were there flowers in his room?

 

Dean opens his eyes, forces his head up an inch. Nothing.

 

He let's his head falls back again.

 

It's a good thing the book is so huge, for even if it slips out of his hands, it has nowhere to go. It will just stay, right there, weighing his legs down to the ground and slowly cutting of the circulation, keeping him right where he is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

His thoughts are just beginning to slip, to tumble down, when there's a knock on the door.

 

Dean lifts his head again, rubs a hand over his eyes, his face. Scoops up a bit, makes himself sit up straighter, “Yeah?”

 

The door opens.

 

Dean looks up and instantly, a smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. Instantly, he feels a bit lighter.

 

“Hey man, what brought you here?”

 

Cas hesitates in the doorway. Like he's not sure whether coming into Dean's bedroom at fuck knows how late in the night is appropriate. Cas doesn't care about these things, and then sometimes he does. It's confusing, and endearing. Dean's chest hurts, watching Cas stand in the door, with his sad eyes and his quiet smile, but it also makes Dean happy. It's stupid, but it makes him happy.

 

“I was, uh. In the neighborhood?” Cas says, and he tries for his serious voice, but the shine of amusement in his eyes is giving him away. Again, it's like he's trying to cheer Dean up with whatever he can come up with. Even cheesy pick-up lines like these, that Cas must use without knowing what they mean.

 

And it's so stupid again, the way Dean can feel his face heat. He ducks his head and chuckles to himself, but when he looks up again he almost jumps back, because suddenly Cas is _right there_.

 

Dean didn't even hear him move, didn't hear the door close.

 

“Uh,” and he has to swallow, nervously, because Cas is crouched down next to him, far too close, his eyes all soft and warm and concern.

 

Dean inhales shakily, wets his lips in an attempt to find his words again. Cas smells kinda sweet.

 

“Does it hurt you, Dean?”

 

He lays a hand on Dean's arm, right there over the mark. And keeps it there, a gentle pressure but a pressure nonetheless. Dean's nerves sing with pain at the touch, even through the fabric, and Dean has to fight not to tear his arm out of Cas' grasp.

 

He hisses in a breath, “Yeah, it's – ” but then his voice gets locked in his throat, because Cas is leaning forward, his eyes fluttering closed. His nose brushes Dean's cheek, “I can take it all away, Dean,” he whispers, his mouth inches from Dean's skin.

 

Dean freezes.

 

Then he sighs, closes his eyes, resigned. “I'm dreaming, aren't I?”

 

Cas is pressing his cheek against Dean's now, rubbing softly against the skin there, “Do you want to?” he murmurs into Dean's ear. Dean shivers against him. He feels weak all over, his hands shaky. The sweet smell, it's overpowering him. Cas' hand around his right forearm is like a vice.

 

Dean sucks in a shuddering breath when Cas leans in closer still, horrified and ice-cold all over, “You're not Cas.”

 

And the thing that looks and sounds like Cas but isn't Cas draws back, only a little. It smiles, calmly, and its eyes are still so warm, so very blue.

 

“But I got you now. _Dean Winchester_.”

 

And then there are nails biting into Dean's shoulders, he's hauled up and then thrown onto the bed, pressed down into the mattress with the thing on top of him, sitting on his legs, pinning him down. He trashes, tries to buck up but he can't move an inch. The thing has both his wrists in an iron grip, holds his arms down by his sides. It smiles, wide, far too wide for a human face.

 

It leans its head down, and it moves, black, red, and then –

 

“ _You_ – ”

 

Rowena's breath hits his skin, sweet putrid heavy smell. He can feel her grinning, even though she's not touching him at all.

 

She leans back.

 

“Not really, no. But it's the next best thing.”

 

She looks down at his right arm, stretched out and trembling.

 

“I had to see it for myself, you know.”

 

Her nails are biting into Dean's skin, a sharp pain, like fire. Books and documents had fallen off the bed when she threw him on it, and from the edges of his vision, Dean can see the pages fluttering all around, slow-motion, like caught in a timeless storm. The light has dimmed, but Rowena's hair is glowing, moving softly in the air like Medusa's snakes.

 

Her eyes are sharp on his face, narrow. He can barely breathe, fear and anger bright and ugly things. There's a sound like crows, laughing, in the distance.

 

She laughs too, her teeth white and cruel.

 

“I thought you were a _threat_. Look at you. _Weakened_ with the mark of Cain. Hiding in a hole in the ground like a frightened animal.”

 

Her nails dig in deeper. She leans closer again and Dean turns his head away, tries to breathe past the pressure in his chest, the panic cursing through his limbs.

 

“Nothing but a bird's heart I could _crush_ between my fingers.”

Dean gasps, pushes through his teeth, “What do you want with me,” and Rowena laughs, like she can't believe him. Her black dress rustles like dead leaves with the movement of her shoulders.

 

“I am not here for _you_ ,” she whispers, her smile a sharp and deadly thing.

 

“There's someone who has made quite the name for himself. I had to know if you'd get in the way. I can see now,” and there's a soundless sound, the pages in the air falling to the ground now, one by one. Rowena's eyes boring into his, shining with triumph, “that won't be the case.”

 

Terror races in shivers up and down Dean's back, he feels bile rising up his throat. Rowena's voice is getting fainter now, the light growing dimmer by the second, “You see, Dean. Not everyone has to eat their sibling's heart, before.”

 

Dean grits his teeth, fights up against the weight pinning him down, even as his vision is going out, “You will leave us - - alone,” and he puts as much venom in it as he can, but the last thing he hears are her soft words, dripping with faux-pity, “Oh _Dean_ – you think you can keep any of what you want?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

> > >

 

His neck is screaming at him when he wakes up, slumped against the side of his bed. His vision is blurry, there's an awful bitter taste in his mouth. His teeth hurt.

 

Dean's still clutching at the book, and he feels cold all over.

 

But when he moves his legs and rubs a hand over his face, he freezes. Adrenaline zaps through him, and he's on his feet in an instant, swaying, scrambling at the door handle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sam is in the library.

 

Dean comes to a stop beside him, unstable and out of breath. “Sam, there was –”

 

Sam has already pushed up from his chair, concern raiding off him. He lays a hand on Dean's shoulder.

 

“Dean, what happened?”

 

Dean stares at him.

 

He turns to look over his shoulder, looks back up to Sam. The words sound wrong in his head, but feel right when he let's them out, “There were – the flowers in my room, Sam, _where are they_?”

 

Sam huffs out a breath of laughter, a smile tugging at his mouth, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “I didn't even know there were any flowers, Dean.” Dean doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what his face does, but something on it makes Sam's brows furrow in concern. His brother says, softly, “You know what, I'll go check, you sit down and have some coffee, or something.”

 

He claps Dean on the back, then moves around him, towards the hallway.

 

Something like fear runs icy through Dean's heart for a moment, but then it's swept away again. He sits down, feeling disoriented and unsettled.

 

There are books on the table, but he can't touch them right now, a nameless dread rising up at their sight.

 

He looks back towards the hallway. It's open and gone, again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> poetry at the beginning is my own


End file.
